


Jumped with You

by heartBEater



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Between Seasons/Series, M/M, One Shot, Season/Series 02 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 17:31:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartBEater/pseuds/heartBEater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock left. For once, for one stupid therapy exercise, John tries to be honest with himself.</p><p>Set before the 3rd Season.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jumped with You

John rolled the pen between his fingers. He thought through today's schedule, double-checked for any unfinished chores, but found no excuse this time. He even had an overload of jam jars, so he couldn't even pretend he had shopping to do. This time, there was no escape. Especially, since he promised Harry to attend the therapy properly. Ever since Sherlock had... since Sherlock's... Well, everybody gave him funny looks, but Harry put it straight: he looked wrecked and he needed help. Professional help, that is, not a package of beer bottles. More to please his sister than to actually seek that help, he restarted his meetings with Ella. At first, he hated those sessions. Everything hurt after them. Like this stupid exercise, practically a primary-school homework: _What Have I Got? Focus on the things that you have got in your life at the moment and write about them_. A printed question on top of the blank page. He ignored the first two assignments of this sort, and the therapist was growing impatient. In the upper corner of the paper, she wrote: _John, try to take it seriously this time_.

No, this tedious “exercise” could not help him. Why treat it seriously? On the other hand, he skipped the other two and felt like shit. Then, writing this could do no more harm, could it? And at least he would face Harry with a clear conscience when she asks about the therapy next time they meet.

The pen clicked, and then its tip slowly landed on the paper.

> _I have got a name. My name is John. An ordinary name for an ordinary man. There are thousands like me, I suppose, veteran doctors with their lives broken half-way. Hearts lost amidst the battle. Though my battle was of a different sort. Hell, it wasn’t even mine. It was his, everything important in my life recently has been his rather than mine. My vocation was that of assisting adventures of a great man. God, how he hated this word, “adventure” Yet I cling to it, because adventures are what heroes have, and he certainly was a hero. And I, a sidekick. Sherlock Holmes’s assistant._
> 
> _He was my best friend, and I wanted to be the same for him. I admired him for all he was, from the very beginning. Even when he behaved like a jerk, insulting and hurting me by just being honest. Even then, or maybe especially then, I thought he was amazing. I was so curious for every upcoming day with him, that I would do anything he asked. Borrow me your mobile, John. John, finish your date and come here, I cannot find my pen. Jump off the roof with me, John. I would have. No excuses nor questions._
> 
> _But he jumped alone. Moriarty forced him, one way or another. Still, something is wrong with this explanation, ‘cause I don’t believe anybody could force Sherlock to do anything without him having the last word. And that is what disturbs me. His last words. He must’ve been lying, of course, but how could he have ever assumed I would believe he was a fraud? He sounded so desperate for me to believe, and that is how I knew he would jump. In the end, he wanted for me to abandon a friend, rather than to have been abandoned by one. Perhaps he thought that if I doubted him, my pain would be lesser. A typically childish behaviour of his._
> 
> _I cannot get his voice out of my head. “Goodbye, John.” On the verge of tears. That’s what convinced me of his death. That if he had a secret plan, he wouldn’t have cried. So much grief felt through the bloody receiver. And I had called him a machine. He was right. I’m an idiot. I disappointed him with that stupid accusation. Maybe in that last moments he thought I betrayed him too. Maybe, and this makes me wake up at night, sweating from the dreams with his chalk-white face against the pavement, maybe it was my fault that he had nothing but despair in the end. Maybe I helped to push him from that roof. Why did you come to care in the end, Sherlock? Why were you more human than I was, on that very day?_
> 
> _Ella asked if I blame myself for it. I said no because I was certain she would tell me I shouldn’t. Maybe she’s right, maybe she’s not. But I’m sure I could’ve done something, if only I had been a little bit as smart as Sherlock was. Just a little. But I’m not. I really have nothing, now that he’s gone. Even my blog existed thanks to him. Not much point in doing anything any more, I’m back to post-Afghan John, except I’m worse. I’m broken. And no crutch for me this time, no Sherlock to forget the crutch for. And I know how it sounds. But I’m still not crossing it out. She was right, Irene Adler, look at me. No point in denying feelings that were never realized. I knew it would be so when he met her, and the closest thing I could do to convey what I felt for him was to tell him she was alive and well, and give him hope, or at least allow him to have a small role-play in his head, that theoretically they could be together. They were worthy of each other, both dead in their games. I decided not to be jealous because, frankly, I never had any chance. A dull man through and through._
> 
> _I don’t ask him to be alive any more. It would be selfish. When I can’t sleep I try thinking like him, so my brain would tire. And sometimes I think that he might have thought it was a rational decision. Irene dead, Moriarty dead, nothing interesting to look forward to. The same tedious cases repeatedly, interspersed with periods of boredom. I have never been naïve enough to believe I can provide any entertainment for his mind. Another reason for how special he was._
> 
> _It’s better he never knew. With all his insight, he never guessed. That night at Angelo’s doesn’t count because I didn’t ~~lo~~ like him then. Probably. I would consider keeping him in the dark an achievement, but I know it was not that I managed to fool him. He just never had any reason to be that inquisitive about me. It would be even worse if he was, because I would be a disappointment for him. So it’s better like this. _
> 
> _No, it’s not. I’m angry with him. He cheated on me. He wasn’t supposed to lose, not ever. I promised myself: John, as long as Sherlock is winning against everybody, you’ll be winning against yourself. Against that part of you that wants for the gossips to be true._
> 
> _But now Sherlock is gone. I’m here. And I know I won’t do anything reckless, because first and foremost I’m loyal to him. To his memory. I’ll keep the true him safe, even if everybody else considers him a fraud. Loyalty is like being on duty all the time._
> 
> _So still his PA. The closest I could get to the most brilliant man on earth, Sherlock Holmes._
> 
> _So, in the end, what have I got?_
> 
> _All I have got are memories of him._

The pen fell on the table, and then rolled down unto the floor. For a long time, it was not picked up.


End file.
